


Delirium and Depravity

by bacchantetriste



Category: Prestuplenie i nakazanie | Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 09:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17640032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacchantetriste/pseuds/bacchantetriste
Summary: “Well, what did I think would happen, following him home like that,” he thought to himself. “I’m not that naïve. I must have wanted him ever since I saw him at the police station. How strange I am . . . I hardly know myself . . . O God!”Or in which Raskolnikov spends the night with Zamiotov.





	Delirium and Depravity

After his fever broke, Raskolnikov was sincerely determined to throw himself before the mercy of the law. All day, he had drifted in and out of consciousness. In the moments that he had been aware of himself, he had suffered from painful bouts of rage and anguish. Now it was evening and the oppressive heat of the day had lifted. He felt calm. He had resolved to himself that he would end this insane and terrible nightmare. He would confess everything. 

He got up from the couch that served as his bed, and changed into his old rags. There was no point in looking decent anymore. He slipped out of his apartment and began to walk quickly towards the police station. The stench of the city air, and the drunken shouts and singing emanating from the taverns no longer disturbed him. He even smiled a little. He felt nothing at all like a condemned man. Instead, he felt a great sense of purpose directed towards ending the torments that had afflicted his conscience. 

Suddenly a man emerged from a tavern and began to saunter down the street ahead of him. Raskolnikov immediately recognized the perfect neat part in the man’s beautiful curled and pomaded hair. His heart stopped, and he stumbled a bit in shock. Zamiotov turned to face him. When he recognized Raskolnikov, his eyes widened in fear. 

“ _Why did I say those things to him when I saw him at the Crystal Palace? I all but confessed to him that I killed that old woman_ ,” Raskolnikov thought angrily. 

“Zamiotov, old friend!” he said, holding out his arms towards Zamiotov as if he was going to embrace him. “It’s me, Raskolnikov, don’t you remember?” 

Zamiotov’s flushed cheeks grew pale. 

“You’re feeling better now then?” he said stiffly. 

“Yes! Much better. The last time we spoke, I wasn’t in my right mind. Razumikhin said that I scared you. I don’t remember what I said, but I really couldn’t have meant it! ”

“You did give me quite a scare, my friend,” said Zamiotov, smiling a little now. 

“Where are you headed now? Going home early?” 

“I have work tomorrow.”

“Yes! At the police station! And you’re the chief clerk, no less. You know, I always did admire you. All dressed up with rings on all your fingers and that fancy part in your hair.” 

Raskolnikov pressed Zamiotov’s arm with his hand and paused. His head was pounding with blood. Seeing Zamiotov had changed everything. For some strange reason, he felt that he couldn’t go to the police station now. His lips grew so numb. “I should let you go then. I have to . . .” He did not know what words should come next, so instead he stared angrily at Zamiotov. 

“Are you quite sure that you’re well?” said Zamiotov. 

“Yes, of course!” 

“I think that you should go home and lie down. You look feverish. You had almost the same look in your eyes when I was at your place and you kept asking me to hand you those dirty old rags. . . . What a queer duck you are! Come now, I’ll walk you home.”

Raskolnikov bristled at this. “Why are you so curious about me, eh? Following me around? Coming to my room? Do you think I don’t know?”

“Know what?” 

Raskolnikov seized Zamiotov’s arm and began to lead him along the street, whispering into his ear. 

“I know that you haven’t been able to take your eyes off of me, ever since you first saw me at the police station. Tell me, was there a moment when I was sick back at my place when everyone else left me, and I was all alone and unconscious? Did you steal some looks at me when I was lying there so vulnerable and naked in my old rags? I see the way you look at me. I know that look. It’s the same look that hideous man gave that little girl down on Konnogvardeisky Boulevard. You like that I’m in rags, don’t you? You think that I’m so poor and tormented that I’d do anything for ten kopecks. You’d like to take me home right now and take advantage of me. I bet that your cock is hard just thinking about it!” 

“You’re not in your right mind, saying things like that!” 

Raskolnikov turned to face Zamiotov. He gazed into Zamiotov’s eyes, daring him to move away. He pressed his face closer to Zamiotov; so close that he could feel his hot breath and smell the champagne on his trembling lips. Strangely, Zamiotov did not pull away. 

“What if I am in my right mind,” Raskolnikov whispered. “And what if . . . what if I’d _like_ you to take advantage of me?” 

Zamiotov made a dark and desperate sound. Raskolnikov pressed himself even closer, so that their lips almost touched. Then he began to laugh hysterically. 

“That’s enough! You’re insane!” cried out Zamiotov. He broke his gaze and fled. Raskolnikov stumbled along the street after him. He did not know why he was following Zamiotov now, but something about this felt predetermined. 

“ _I’ll show him_ ,” he thought. “ _Whatever it is that he wants from me, I’ll show him that I’m even more depraved than he ever imagined_.” 

He trailed Zamiotov through side streets and alleys, always about ten paces behind him. At times, he saw Zamiotov turned back slightly to look at him. Finally, they reached to door to Zamiotov’s apartment. 

“You’re still here,” Zamiotov said. There was a hint of smugness in his voice. Raskolnikov said nothing and followed him inside. Zamiotov’s room was only slightly larger than his. He had a bed and a desk at least, but the handsome clothes and rings were a ruse. 

Zamiotov bent down to take off his boots, exposing the perfect white part in his sleek hair. Suddenly Raskolnikov felt an unpleasant sensation of irritability that was concentrated in his genitals. Without understanding what he was doing, he reached down and mussed up Zamiotov’s perfect hair. Zamiotov lifted his head and slowly rose until he was level with Raskolnikov’s gaze. His eyes flashed angrily, and Raskolnikov stepped back, trembling. He opened his mouth to cry out as Zamiotov moved closer. 

Raskolnikov grunted angrily as he felt Zamiotov thrust his hot tongue into his mouth. He wanted to push Zamiotov away, but he suddenly felt weak and dizzy. His legs buckled slightly as Zamiotov’s fingers entwined in his hair, and his teeth crushed against his lips. 

“ _Well, what did I think would happen, following him home like that_ ,” he thought to himself. “ _I’m not that naïve. I must have wanted him ever since I saw him at the police station. How strange I am . . . I hardly know myself . . . O God_ !”

Zamiotov had opened the front of his trousers and his soft hands were curling around his cock. Raskolnikov had never seen anything so surreal. His ugly swollen cock, sticking out proudly from a mound of brown curls, was enveloped in the delicate perfumed hand of the chief police clerk! 

“Is this what Napoleon felt like when he first saw Alexander? Did he feel such painful and desperate arousal in his loins?” 

“Good Lord, do you always sound so delirious? Come now, let’s go to bed. I’m tired of standing.” 

“Yes, I’ll come,” Raskolnikov murmured. He settled into the bed on his back, and Zamiotov lay down beside him. Raskolnikov kept talking, rocking into Zamiotov’s tight warm hand. 

“Do you think that Napoleon fucked Alexander? No, he’d never have the gall to do that. But he thought about it, fucking our Emperor,” said Raskolnikov, feeling the waves of pressure build inside of him. “He said that he would have made Alexander his mistress. They say, you know, that Alexander was handsome when he was young. I think that’s why Napoleon tried to take Russia. Not for the glory, but for his golden beauty, Alexander. All those dead men. All those horses. . . O God!“ Zamiotov had begun to increase his speed. “I think about the horses the most. I suppose it’s because they don’t have any say in it at all. And what if he had taken Russia? Do you think that he would have kept going until he ruled the world? What did he want? Glory? Or was it Alexander’s blue eyes that sent all those men to their deaths? Why not? Troy was fought over a woman! But you don’t like women do you Zamiotov? I knew that you didn’t when I first saw you at the police station . . .” Raskolnikov began groaning between his words. “That frightened me. . . . You know . . . I was engaged once . . . but I couldn’t do it. . . . I wanted to be above it. . . . I was relieved when the girl died . . . ” 

“You’re mad, aren’t you,” said Zamiotov. 

“No . . . o,” he whimpered as he spurted warm cream over Zamiotov’s beautiful perfumed fingers. His cum dripped over Zamiotov’s rings. He seized Zamiotov’s wet hand. 

“If I was in your place, I wouldn’t just frig it. I’d suck it . . . like this,” he said. He thrust Zamiotov’s index and middle finger into his mouth, sucking as hard as he could. He sucked up the bitter taste of his own cum and the cold metal. He began to taste blood too. The hard edge of the ring must have cut the inside of his cheek. 

Then he took each of Zamiotov’s delicate fingers one by one into his mouth. When he reached Zamiotov’s pinkie finger, he sucked hard and desperately. Zamiotov snarled and extracted his hand forcefully. 

“I want to suck you off. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Raskolnikov said, almost begging. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

“If you only knew the things that I would dare to do.”

He undid Zamiotov’s trousers for him. Zamiotov’s cock was small and elegant. He was painfully hard. Raskolnikov took him deep into his mouth; until his eyes watered and his nose began to run. He felt Zamiotov’s wet hands run through his hair as he sucked. He flattered himself that Zamiotov came readily into his mouth, crying out, “Rodia, Rodia, Rodia!” Raskolnikov swallowed him easily; his cum was much less bitter than his own had been. When he was finished, he sucked Zamiotov’s fingers again greedily. 

“I need you . . . “ 

He positioned himself onto his back, so that Zamiotov understood. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure!” Raskolnikov snapped, “And don’t worry about . . . that. I haven’t eaten in days.”

Zamiotov pressed his beautiful fingers against him and Raskolnikov easily took him in, allowing his body to relax and suck his fingers inside. 

Zamiotov thrust his fingers gently, his rings grazing against Raskolnikov’s sensitive rim. Raskolnikov shuddered and gasped. He felt as if his fingers and ass and cock were one pulsing, throbbing organ. He ached for more. His back arched, and his legs began to tremble. Zamiotov gripped Raskolnikov’s cock with his other hand, and sucked on his tip. Raskolnikov moaned and panted as Zamiotov increased his pace, turning his fingers inside him. A monstrous and intense feeling was churning inside of his body. He thought that he was going to faint.

Finally, with a great bellow he released all that was left of himself into Zamiotov’s mouth. Zamiotov’s face grew pale. He desperately wanted to spit out Raskolnikov’s cum, but he swallowed pitifully. Cum leaked out of his mouth and down his chin. Raskolnikov kissed him greedily. 

He reached for Zamiotov’s cock and frigged him until his breath grew faster and deeper, and he whined and bucked into his hand. Zamiotov shot little bursts of cum shot onto his chest and collapsed against him. 

Raskolnikov curled up next to Zamiotov’s warm body. His ass and cock ached happily. The vague feelings of confusion and terror, and the disjointed thoughts that had plagued him for the past few days had vanished. His head felt blissful and perfectly empty. He soon fell into a sound and peaceful sleep. 

He woke exhausted and sweaty. His most immediate thought was that everything that had happened to him had been a dream. He expected to find that he was sleeping on his couch and that he would open his eyes to his cracked yellow wallpaper. He propped himself up, squinted through the hot sunlight burning into his eyes, and realized that he was in a bed with a strange man sleeping beside him. 

Zamiotov slept on his side, facing him. He was breathing softly, his dark eyelashes fluttered. His belly and chest were so much paler than his face and arms, and his nipples were very pink, as if he was a figure in a rococo painting. Raskolnikov had never seen a man look so vulnerable. 

They were sinners, both of them. Yet the man who had corrupted him looked as innocent as a child. Raskolnikov felt a strange and sudden desire to seize him by his beautiful pomaded hair and crush his skull against the ground until he was nothing but lifeless blood. Then that terrible feeling subsided and he longed to embrace Zamiotov, kiss him and weep. 

Raskolnikov rose and dressed quickly. He blinked as he emerged into the morning sun. Then, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head lowered, he fled.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to dedicate this to my best friend. You have clothed yourself with kindness (Colossians 3:12 KJV).


End file.
